"Well, my dear, we shall see; at any rate you will find pens, ink, and paper on my table." And with that we both went about our various tasks-mine was to indite a letter to Mr. Castlebrook; it ran thus: "FATHER, I have quitted the place which, by a mockery, was called my home. In happiness or affection it has been a desert to me. I have tried earnestly to please you, and be obedient, as well to yourself as to others who bear your name: vainly, indeed, have I endeavoured to win even the faintest show of kindness, and now blows and harshness have driven me, I trust for ever, from you. I will never unite my fate with the person you insist I shall wed; and it is my intention to keep the faith I promised to another, while that other claims my promise, and continues worthy of it. I write this only to say I am safe and-spite of the cruel treat ment I received-well. I would not willingly iuflict on you one needless moment of regret or compunction, and you might conjecture the worst; but from any claim of a child on a parent, as far as I am concerned, you need have no fear. Driven from my natural protection, I shall never voluntarily return to it, and rest perfectly assured I shall neither forget to preserve untarnished the name I bear, or the sainted mother who, from my birth, supplied the care and affection of two parents. "ISABELLA CASTLEBROOK." A hard letter for a child to indite; yet no other words would flow from my pen. If I inherited any trace of my father's disposition, surely it was perceptible in that epistle. The blows I received from my father's whip seemed to have eaten into my very soul and hardened my heart. Nothing relieved me so much as the tears I had shed at my old master's feet: till then I had not wept since that dreadful hour. There was another letter I desired to write one to Vincent, to contradict the account I knew he would receive; but at present, as the means for transit were so uncertain, I determined not to do so. After this decision I descended to the parlour, and found Mr. Benvolere dressed, and sitting in his easy leather-chair, eagerly awaiting me. I kissed his poor withered, useless hand, as I wished him good morning. "Ah, my dear," he said, wistfully, "that hand will never draw forth any sounds again. Well, God's will be done. As we grow old, child, I fear those words become more difficult to feel and say. It ought not to be so; but it is. Well, now play this Sanctus for me. I wrote it, little guessing who would be here to interpret it. Come!" Five guineas now, child, is an El Dorado to light upon. I am not the Benvolere who, twenty years ago, could command by his name any sum he pleased from these fellows. I am now Benvolere whom people have forgotten-old and broken down. The world is not for such as me, Isabella: in fact, the world and I have done with each other. To-morrow Theresa, with her sad face and black gown, will go and sell this music to Five guineas, my dear, will buy coals and candles, meat and bread for many days." it." "And wine, sir, I hope: I am sure you need “No, child. Thank heaven I never cared for wine, or any other strong drinks." "To think you should be thus reduced! it cuts me to the heart! Oh, how I hope the wretch who so wronged you-" "Isabella !"—again gently-" Is this vindictive young lady my little tender-loving pupil, who took unkindness so to heart, and tried even to love her enemies ?" I hung my head. "No, my dear girl-'Vengeance is mine,' saith One, in whose hands it may surely be left to be inflicted, if needful. This poor wretch, as you call him, wanted to get a lift in the world, and my shoulders, my dear, were nearest: he had no personal animosity, believe me." 66 So much the worse," cried I in anger, which even my master's rebukes could not repress. "There is not even the stimulus of hate for his excuse!" 66 'Well, well, I have forgiven him, and would rather be Tomaso Benvolere with a good conscience than this man with his evil one. Ah! conscience is the Nemesis which overtakes all who sin. Now, come, we shall talk together about your future." "The very thing, dear sir, I wish. In the first place let me write about this business you told me of: I am quite impatient lest it should be gone." "I think there is no fear of that. But my dear Isabella, how will it be possible for you, unaccustomed to such severe work, to under take it?" "Oh, to me work will be so sweet! You need not fear my strength. I have excellent health. I quite long to begin!" "Well! as I really know not what else is best to be done, I will dictate a letter to Mr. Surban, the professor, who-lucky fellow-having come into the possession of property, is about to enjoy his ease and prosperity." I wrote to his dictation, and the letter was taken to the post by Madame Theresa when she went out on one of her necessary errands. I played it for him: the tears rose in his fine blue eyes. "Brava! my own pupil!" he said, when I had finished. "You have the true autist's soul. One is satisfied to have thus rendered the brain's ideas. Well, now I think" (naming a popular music-publisher of the day)" ought to give me five guineas for that manuscript." "Five guineas, dear Mr. Benvolere! You will never, surely, let it go for so mean a sum ?" "You want the old man's compliments-eh? Gently! You are a bad little financier- Well, child, we have a long day still before us, unless you have the purse of Fortunatus.and I will tell you, though in doing so I must 66 "I shall be impatient now," I said, till the answer arrives. Dear Mr. Benvolere, I am dying to know a little secret-why did you take more than common interest in me? I have often wondered." recal feelings and youthful hopes, withered almost as soon as born. Now listen." "I was a young man, just beginning to make a name, and to be of some importance in my profession of music, when, in one of those intervals so needful for recreation, I determined to take a walking tour through some of the English counties. At a few of the principal towns I gave concerts, and combined thus considerable profit with pleasure: pleasure it all was to me-young, active, with all the bright future before me, a future which youth delights to paint with the rainbow hues of love and hope." As I involuntarily sighed "You can understand me now; before, you would have heard my words merely as the garnish of some romantic tale. But at that time, Isabella, however I might love to imagine the being who was to gild and share my future, I had never seen my ideal even faintly realized. I believe, perhaps, being in those early days something more poetical than I am now, I was rather fastidious in my requirements; but, after all, what right had I, a poor professor of music, to sigh for beauty, refinement, or talent? Yet, though I might have dispensed with the first of these gifts, the being whom I could have loved must have been indispensably possessed of the two last. Even while despairing of meeting with this ideal, Fate held in store a surprise destined to assure me that my romance was capable of becoming a reality. Charmed by the loveliness and romantic situation of a small village in Devonshire, I determined to halt there for some time, till my eyes had drunk deeply of the natural beauty of which all my life I have been an ardent admirer. Society, indeed, was scarce, in this remote and primitive village. At the rural inn where I abided, there assembled sometimes of an evening, a farmer or two, the apothecary, and the keeper of the one shop of the village, the merchandize of which consisted of most heterogeneous articles, from silkdresses to snuff; and mine host himself, in addition to his functions of landlord, was likewise the miller of Penrocket. "It was only on Sunday that, attending the grey church which stood embosomed amid trees in the centre of the hamlet, I beheld anything resembling what the inn-hostess called gentry, in the clergyman, and in his family, who occupied the best pew. But, to my great surprise, in this primitive village temple, there was an organ from which sounds issued, convincing my most fastidious ears that no ill-taught or untrained musician produced them. After the service was over, I asked who was the organist, when the clergyman himself came forward, and with kindly courtesy greeted me as a stranger. He was gratified by my praise of the modest little church, still more by my enthusiasm about the music, which I frankly told him was a surprise no less welcome than unexpected. Mr. Franklyn (he had introduced himself by name) smiled: "Only an amateur,' he said. We are too poor to pay an organist. A young lady who resides under our protection at the Parsonage, and who is highly accomplished-in music especially, though nearly self-taught-is the performer, and the instructor of the village children in singing. It is one of the few recreations which poor Miss de Trevor delights in.' "As a stranger, I could not inquire why an adjective which implied that the fair musician was somehow an object of pity was thus prefixed to her name. I took advantage, however, of the conversation turning thus on music, to explain my own social station, and announced my name. To my great surprise I found it wellknown among them. They were good, simple people, and expressed pleasure at being able to entertain one whom they were pleased to style famous. At this moment, just, in fact, as Mrs. Franklyn was pressing on me an invitation to dinner, Miss de Trevor joined them. This was the first time I saw your mother. After I had seen her, I no longer declined the clergyman's invitation. That day passed over only too quickly, as did also after-days spent in the same delightful, but dangerous society. I did not dream the happiness of two lives was to be the penalty paid for such short-lived joy. "In spite of her beauty, her accomplished mind and talents (which commanded attention even in that out-of-the-way spot), the shade of deep melancholy, apparent always in your mother's temperament, struck me forcibly after our first interview. That there was a mystery connected with the being to whom my own soul approached at once, was evident, and I naturally became interested in its source. Music alone had power to charm away this sadness; and a day or two after our meeting, Mrs. Franklyn communicated to me her friend's desire to avail herself of the opportunity afforded by my presence, to take lessons in her favourite art. At the same time, whether as a warning, or from a mere love of communication, the clergyman's wife related to me your mother's history. Are you, my child, acquainted with it?" Perfectly, dear sir: she told it to me herself; but I never heard her mention your name. Pray go on." "The deepest, tenderest pity took possession of my mind for the sad fate of this guileless sinner. It became doubtless apparent, in my conduct to Miss de Trevor, when she took her lessons, to which I devoted all the remaining time I could call my own six weeks. [How small a space out of a life! How pregnant with its welfare or its woe!] Six weeks, in short, sufficed to convince your mother and myself equally, how inexpressibly dear each had become to the other. I do not think, when I first dared to betray my feelings, that Miss de Trevor anticipated any difficulty from her father. She was an outcast from her family, and I believe conjectured that her fate would be a matter of perfect indifference to Mr. de Trevor. Neither did the kind and sympathizing Franklyns anticipate any serious obstacle to the course of our attachment. Though, as well as myself, they might foresee objections to my social rank as a mere musician, they were yet good enough to declare they should prefer my alliance for their charge, to any man possessing even rank and fortune. "We had parted one evening somewhat earlier than usual, for I was about to visit a spot a few miles off, celebrated for its fishing, to which I purposed going on the over-night, to be ready for the sport at the first break of day. How fondly we anticipated our next meeting! "A few short hours sufficed to sever the ties which I had trusted would unite two lives. One short, cold word came to be inscribed on my heart and hers in place of the glowing letters formed by Love: that word was Duty. In the interval pending my return to Penrocket, Mr. de Trevor had sent down his solicitor, with his commands imposed on his sorrowing daughter. To comply with these, she believed formed her expiation. To my mind, even at this day, it seems a question if she did not greatly exceed her duty : but remonstrance, prayers, tears, were unavailing. You might as easily have persuaded a martyr at the stake, with heaven opening its sublime view to the immortal soul, to recant and become an apostate. I heard her last words-Farewell! we shall meet again in heaven!' And that meeting, Isabella, has long been held as the solace of all earthly sufferings, the anchor whereon a wounded soul has held, to enable it to bear the storms and buffets of humanity. No other love could ever fill the place occupied by Frances de Trevor-no gifts, no graces satisfied like hers the heart of the poor musician." His head sank as he spoke, and my sobs became unrestrained. I threw myself beside him-"Father, my father, the only one I have known on earth! she sees us now, and blesses you for your goodness to her forlorn child !" "Yes, like a pitying angel, she has sent thee to my aid. I am not childless now: the old man has got something to love, to hope, to wish for. Peace be with us!" He prayed for some minutes silently. "Now, my Isabella, leave me. I can sleep, and my early-loved, my early-lost watches over me, and whispers, Courage-we shall soon meet now!" And many buzzing things went by, Green gad-flics glancing everywhere; And gossamers which cannot fly Against the lightest breathing air. But no leaf moved, no bloom was shed; The faintest breeze had been a boon; And, like a shadow overhead, We saw the phantom of the moon. The day wore on, till floated past Soft clouds, dim-fringed with cooling rain, And to our languid forms at last The welcome breeze came back again, In green field and on purple heath. I knew, by sheep-bells from the height, Which lent her curls so fair a glow. 1865. "SLEEP WELL." BY MRS. ABDY. "They exchanged the kindly German greeting-Sleep Well.'"-Lisabee's Love Story. Sleep well! May no vain wandering thoughts distress thee; No gloomy memories before thee rise; Let not rude storms thy peaceful sleep dispel; May guardian angels ever serve and aid thee, Watching around thy quiet couch.-Sleep well! I wish thee not the sleep devoid of visions, That Dreamland offers to the slumberer's sight; Saying in soft and gentle tones-Sleep well! God may not give fame, riches, pomp, or pleasure And may it strengthen thee His praise to tell; Rise from thy couch, intent on thoughts of Heaven, And when the busy day has closed-Sleep well! "Mark the sable woods, That shade sublime yon mountain's nodding brow; The Elysian seats, and down the embowering glade Pliny assures us that Minerva, as well as Diana, dwells amid the forests; and Akenside, above, finely alludes to the religious feelings which the woods, as they boldly stretch up the summit of a lofty mountain, inspire in the beholder. Trees have always been venerated. From the time of Abraham to that of Constantine, pious pilgrimages were made to the oaks of Mamre, near Hebron, whilst the nations surrounding that of the Jews dedicated trees and groves to their deities. Amid the woods of Etruria, Numa sought refuge from the cares of a new, and, until his reign, turbulent people; and it was Numa who first erected a temple to Peace and Faith. The consecration of groves was common among the Jews, and Abraham himself planted a grove in Beer-sheba, worshipping there. Moses, however, forbade the custom, and Ezekiel and Hosea reproved it. In such esteem did they hold the cedars of Lebanon, that one of the most fearful threats of Sennacherib was that he would level those beautiful trees to the ground. The temples of the Greeks were mostly built in groves. Tacitus informs us that the first part, in consecrating the Roman capital, consisted in the soldiers entering with bonghs of trees; and then the vestal virgins, attended by boys and girls, sprinkled the floor with spring, brook, and river water. this means the age of the child. He, in consequence, regards the tree with affection all the rest of his life. The Tartar diviners assure us that whoever plants trees will enjoy life to an advanced churches with holly, bay, and cedar, as it were age. We Christians dress our houses and to welcome the Nativity of our Saviour; and we sing the carols of the Advent, and we place in our dwellings the " Christmas tree," with the evergreens-beautiful emblems of that brighter and unfading world, where Christ has gone to prepare endless mansions of bliss, joy, and happiness for his faithful followers. The use the poets have made of trees is very striking, beautiful, and important. Old Homer frequently embellishes his subjects with them; and no passage in the "Iliad" is more fine than where he compares the falling of leaves and shrubs to the fall and renovation of ancient families. Such illustrations are frequent in the sacred writings. Says the author of Ecclesiastes, "I am exalted like a cedar in Lebanon," and " as a cypress tree upon the mountain of Hermon. I was exalted like a palm-tree in Engeddi, and as a rose-plant in Jericho; as a turpentine-tree I stretched out my branches, and my branches are the branches of honour and grace." In the Psalms there is a fine allegory, where the vine is made to represent the people of Israel. How beautiful is the passage in "Ossian," of Malvina's lamentation for Oscar!"I was a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low; the spring returned with its showers, but no green leaf of mine arose." Again, when Ossian is old, blind, and weary, and The oratories of the Jews were surrounded almost without friends, he compares himself to by olive trees; whilst in the deepest recesses of a tree dried up and decayed: "But Ossian is a the forests, the Druids of Gaul, Britain, and tree that is withered; its branches are blasted Germany were accustomed to sacrifice. Virgil, and bare; no green leaf covers its boughs; from describing Elysium as filled with the most lux-its trunk no young shoot is seen to spring; uriant gifts of nature, also represents that the highest bliss of the happy spirits is to repose on flowery banks, or to wander among its shady groves. The Icelanders believe that upon the summit of Boula, a mountain which no foot has yet ascended, there is a cavern opening to a paradise of never-fading verdure delightfully shaded by trees, and abounding in large flocks of sheep. We know that our boasted AngloSaxon race once worshipped trees, because of Canute's having forbidden this species of idolatry among them. When a native of Java has a child born, he immediately plants a cocoa-nut tree; which adding every year'a circle to its growth, indicates the age of the tree, and by the breeze whistles in its grey moss, the blast shakes its head of age; the storm will soon overturn it, and strew all its dry branches with thee, O Dermid! and with all the rest of the mighty dead, in the green-winding vale of Cona." Phocian, one day hearing an orator promise many fine things to the Athenians, exclaimed: "I think I now see a cypress tree; in its leaves, its branches, and in its height it is beautiful; but, alas! it bears no fruit." Very beautiful, too, is the metaphor, with some delicate flattery, where Horace represents the glory of Cæsar's house like a tree rising slowly from its seed, and after several ages, spreading its branches to the heavens-there towering with 28 much dignity in the forest as did Marcellus above all other youths. Dr. Blair compares a good man to an oak, whose branches the tempest may indeed bend, but whose root it can never touch-a tree which may be occasionally stripped of its leaves and blossoms, but which still maintains its place, and in due season will flourish anew. Mythologists have supposed trees to be the residence of inferior deities, and beautiful are some of the fictions which have arisen from this notion. Not to mention any from the ancients, and far superior to those of Ovid, is that of Tasso, where he describes Rinoldo as living in an enchanted wood-a large myrtle surrounded by a hundred smaller ones. As he approaches, the air resounds with strains of enchanting music-every tree opens, disclosing nyinphs of seraphic beauty, who, forming into a circle, welcome him to their enchanted grove, with songs of pleasure and delight. Thus is it that the forest, from time immemorial, has been the theme of song, and to this day the sylvan solitude is the magic spell of romance. And truly, what can be compared to the forest? It is nature's own sanctuary. From its ever-green moss and its flowers are shed a balmy freshness; whilst leaves, dew-drops, and sunbeams seem mysteriously to dance through the branches, and conduct the mind by an invisible power into the realm of wonders. Such is the forest, the labyrinth of fairy tale and fable--the silent retreat of useful, solitary thought. The oak is the aboriginal tree of Europe, and early was reverenced as the Tree of Life, the precious gift of the Great Father. Its fruit appeased the hunger of the wandering hordes on the shores of Greece: in its trunk they found a dwelling from beneath its roots sprang the rivulet that gave them drink. The Greeks and Romans consecrated the oak to the gods of Olympus, as from its nestling branches were heard the voices of the future. In the oak-tops, the German and the Scandinavian beheld the abode of the God of Thunder, whilst their priests cherished the sacred mistletoe, strangely growing on its trunk. There was no tree for bold, irregular beauty, which could be compared to it; nor any offering such efficient services for the first wants of man-the house of the living, the coffin for the dead-the ship which conveyed the daring crusader, and the spear for the hunter's arm. To cherish it was a solemn duty, and the Anglo-Saxon author beautifully says of it: "On the land the oak is, To the children of men, Over the path of the waterfowl, Let each one possess an oak- Luxuriance and vigour unite in its growth, from the far-reaching root to the firm, shield-like leaf. There stands the oak, the tree of strength, the monarch of the forest (Quercus robur), with its daring, zigzag branches, and grand crookedness of stem. This is the hoar king of the forest, to whom the eagle resorts, and heroes take for an example. How fitting and ingenious the device of the English kings, when they ascended the throne, to select an oak to be ar their name, and carry it down to coming generations! The heroic nature of the tree seems to be proclaimed by another circumstance: it is seldom seen in a crowd; mostly standing alone, or mingled with other trees of different foliage. In low plains, it is often associated in fine groups, and forms a picture for the painter. Such a beautiful sight have we seen in the " Live Oak Plantation," as it is called belonging to the United States, along Santa Rosa Sound, Florida. This sheet of water extends some twelve miles amidst meadows of luxuriant green, with clear, white sandy shores. Here and there, the stag, but seldom disturbed, raises his proud antlers, as if listening to cries from afar. As our little self-moving steamer passed along, pleasant peeps were obtained between the dark, grotesque, zigzag trunks; while through the deep, solemn masses of green foliage, there glided silently the golden sunbeams. On the mountains, however, we have seen the oak in all its native grandeur, and amidst the aboriginal Alleghanies. There you may behold those monarchs, whose age is a thousand years. Reuben's and other pencils have painted such. Far above Nature's walls of rock, the roots grip with distorted grasp, deep into the stony ribs, as if they would cleave the earth. Then, the noble tree shoots and grows upwards out of the earth, slowly, but of gigantic size, even unto the pathway of the clouds. Like impenetrable armour, the deeply-scarred bark fastens itself around the body and limbs of the giant of the woods. The knotty branches show great strength; and when the boisterous north wind hurls his darts against the iron trunk, the shaggy covering of moss, lining its sides with a dense shield, wards off the strong blows. Up here, the monarch of the mountain has planted his foot-a giant hero, admirably equipped, and rejoicing to fight the battle of the clouds with olus and his wild combatants; while, from below, the evergreen ivy and the honeysuckle climb and twine around the stem, and the robin and the blackbird sing fresh songs amid its branches. Such is the American oak. It has seen the native Indians, Columbus and Hudson, with the earliest colonists. It still stands, proud and green; but there are few like it, by which we may count back the boundary marks of past history. In that land the fatal axe is too unsparingly wielded against what is planted by the hand of Nature. Old England, now so poor in forests, does differently-she shows great veneration for these truthful witnesses of the past. Proud is she of her oaks, and has a right to be so. In Sherwood Forest to this day stands the tree under whose branches King John gave audience, and |